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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266362">we were near as stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius'>sybilius</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>inclined; unbound; chosen. [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Disco Elysium (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Canon-Noncompliant Kineema, Driving, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mutual Support, Platonic Affection, Post-Canon, Second person POV, The Horrible Weight of the Human Condition, The Pale, melancholia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:42:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,358</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266362</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The ringing comes sharp. Bright and insistent, the sensation of cold plastic as the ringing ceases. Blankets shifting against the relentless dark. </p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“Jean?” </p><p>You know that voice.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>(I mean if you like. either works imo), Kim Kitsuragi &amp; Jean Vicquemare, Kim Kitsuragi/Jean Vicquemare</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>inclined; unbound; chosen. [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185641</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>we were near as stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494902">They Were Formative</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadabug/pseuds/circopoi">circopoi (cicadabug)</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicpic/pseuds/nicpic">nicpic</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I got really taken by the implied dynamic in nicpic/circopoi's story "They Were Formative"; and kept thinking about where that might go. </p><p>This is a story about -- not being able to give the exact thing to someone who you care about very deeply and who will walk through fire for you if you ask; but -- giving something that they feel is equivalent, and you realize evens the scales in your mind just the same. </p><p>It's also about long car rides. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The ringing comes sharp. Bright and insistent, the sensation of cold plastic as the ringing ceases. Blankets shifting against the relentless dark. </p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“Jean?” </p><p>You know that voice. </p><p>You clear your throat, pulling yourself upright as your mind catches up to you. Your eyes catch on the searing red digital display of your bedside table. Two in the goddamn morning. And Kim Kitsuragi is pulling you out of an unusually deep sleep. You suck in breath through your teeth, straighten your back.</p><p>“Kim. Is it -- what’s happening? Is it Harry?”</p><p>“No. Not Harry.”</p><p>You blink, letting the words wash over you for a moment, rubbing the sleep crusted on your eye. Not Harry. Why is he -- </p><p>-- oh. You’ve fucked this up a bit, then. </p><p>“Shit, um. Do you want me to come over? Do you want to come over?”</p><p>“I drove in your direction,” you strain to hear the passing of a car on the other line, the hum of Revachol’s streets. Your mind conjures up the hard green shell of the nearest pay phone easily, just a few shops away from the narrow door that leads up to your apartment. </p><p>You wonder, absurdly, if you should have given him a key. He’s picked up your sorry ass twice. Once on your call. Once because Harry asked, and you wouldn’t have turned him down. Not when Harry was in that state. </p><p>You never expected Kim to call on you in the same way. </p><p>“You want to come up?"</p><p>“No.”</p><p>Okay. Not the same then. </p><p>“Alright. You at the payphone in front of the laundromat?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“I’ll be down in a second.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>You suck in a nervous breath as you hear the line go dead. You know Kim, sure, but it's mostly that he knows you. You've never seen him less than...tense, but still liquid calm. He’s seen you at least once so fucked up you felt like you were clawing your way out of your own skin. Is that what he's here about?</p><p>He kept a quiet distance then, letting Harry take the lead. You remember he heated up dinner he passed you in a mint blue bowl, something with rice noodles. </p><p>Fuck, can you even heat up a soup? No, stupid question. You throw the quilt off and cross the room to grab your jacket. You can do this.</p><p>Hell, you <em> badly </em> want to. But most of all you want to do it <em> right </em> .</p><p><em> Best get doing it then, Vic. </em> You lace up your boots fast as you can, and take the stairs down from your apartment two at a time. </p><p>The early winter air hits your cheeks hard when your boots hit Jamrock street. The wind whistles around the flannel pants you sleep in, and you shiver, wondering if you should have changed clothes. It’s snowing very quietly -- flakes descending like ash, barely sticking to the pavement. You turn your head first to where the payphone sits at the end of the road-- deserted. Then your eyes catch on the blue paint of an all-too impressive police car under a streetlamp. You jog across the road, pushing past your hesitation to open the passenger door. </p><p>Kim Kitsuragi, sitting stiff-backed and sallow under the acidic streetlight. You stare a moment at his bare hands, strained to a grip on his thighs, his head barely turning when he flickers his eyes over to you. </p><p>“Hey, Kits,” you wince internally when you say it. Maybe not the time for nicknames. It’s not like he called you ‘Vic’ on the phone either. This isn’t getting dinner after work on a Friday night. </p><p>“Jean. Thank you for coming.” he says again. So stiff and formal, fuck, when you show up at his door you can barely get a word out. What could you possibly offer him?</p><p>You get in, shut the door tight. The script is Kitsuragi’s anyways, start to finish. Sit you or Harry down somewhere safe, get water, get food. Harry likes touch. Between the two of them, they can sometimes get you to talk. Sometimes. </p><p>None of that shit applies here, you’re in a fucking car. His fucking car. That he loves more than -- well, a lot of things. You cast a glance down to his hands again. Remember the last time you shared a cigarette in his kitchen while Harry slept off nothing worse than a few nights of bad dreams (and thank fuck for that). Remember the way his gaze steadied when you squeezed his hand just briefly. </p><p>You cover his hand with yours, struggling to keep your gaze on his face, steady. His eyes are closed. He exhales. </p><p>“I might say some things. They won’t mean anything.”</p><p>You swallow, “Things like?”</p><p>He shakes his head. So not so untouchable after all, all right. Maybe he wants what you want. “Whatever you wanna say, I’ll hear it, all right? I want to.”</p><p>“All right.”</p><p>He doesn’t say anything. But his joints have relaxed in a way you can just barely perceive. He lifts his hand suddenly, you lace your fingers with his. You realize belatedly he was eyeing the clean and intricate mess of levers. Probably shouldn’t let him start the car yet. You meet his gaze steady; and almost recognize something soft and human in his glass facade. He squeezes your hand back. </p><p>“I usually drive. It wasn’t enough tonight -- I’m not in any danger, Jean. But I cannot sleep. And I keep thinking about the edge of things. How long it would take to get there,” his voice rings hollow and haunted. </p><p>“The Pale?”</p><p>“Yes. Exactly,” he leans his head back. In the street light, dark circles under his eyes, pooling into the caverns of his cheek, he finally looks his age. </p><p>You think about mentioning that a car wouldn’t do shit to get to the Pale surrounding Insulinde, all of six thousand kilometers of sea, but decide against it, “Long time.” </p><p>“But it is there.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>You stretch your neck. Okay. This could be going better, it could be going worse. You should try <em> something </em> like what he does for you. </p><p>"Have you eaten?”</p><p>“I have.”</p><p>“Drank water?”</p><p>“Not long ago,” he reaches beside him and comes out with a vacuum flask. Course he’s prepared for everything. Your eyes catch on the levers in the street light again. </p><p>“You want me to drive?” the question slips out just after the next and you almost wince. It’s Kitsuragi’s <em> car</em>, his pride and joy, you think he’s going to let you -- </p><p>“...yes.”</p><p>You blink, still processing, but Kim has already opened his door, hell, he’s at the passenger door just as you finally get your shit together enough to open it. </p><p>“I’m going to be all right,” he says insistently. His gaze is flinty. You consider putting a hand on his cheek, decide against it and slide out of the car.<br/>
<br/>
“I know you are. Just not right now. Just sit.”</p><p>He nods; almost numb, and you get a flash of what it might be like for him, sitting your tired ass down on his grey couch. He's not like Harry, quickly going from urgent panic to heaving sobs. He's not exactly like you are either.</p><p>As you cross in front of the car, a strange memory from years ago floats to mind. Someone gave you chicken stock in a glass jar, green bow tied to the top. You just shoved it in the freezer for whenever the hell. It wasn’t exactly a gift with a lot of thought in it. You found it months later, the inside solid, the outside in pieces. Shattered from the slow-freeze of the expansion. </p><p>So don’t let him shatter, Vic, you tell yourself as you settle into the driver’s seat. </p><p>You start the Kineema. It purrs gently. Kim momentarily looks like he might say something, but seems to think better of it, leaning back on the seat. You shrug off your coat and toss it in the back, then fiddle with the dials on the heat. Might as well assume you'll be here a while.</p><p>“You mind if I put on some music?” you’re a little worried you might drop off if you don’t. He shakes his head, eyes still closed. You flick on the radio and have to flinch for the volume dial as the raucous pulse of SPEEDFREAKS FM cuts through the quiet of the night. He huffs out a short breath that might be a laugh. An attempt at it. </p><p>You page through stations until you find something gentle. A simple line of piano, winding in and out of itself, themes dancing between upper and lower registers. The melody is complex enough to keep you awake. But you hope it fades into the background for him. </p><p>Then you shift the car into gear, and leave the street you know so well behind. </p><p>At first you just focus on driving, making your motions as careful and smooth as possible. At some point his breathing evens out, and your thinking syncs up to the music -- the elegant leaps and trills of the pianist. </p><p>You glance at Kim’s sleeping form, your lips turning up in spite of the tension in your shoulders. Someone who didn’t know him might guess that gentle Moralist-approved instrumental music was all he listened to. In spite of your exhaustion, in spite of the way that breathing in is still mired with caustic helplessness, you feel lucky. To know how wrong that is about him. That he let you know that. </p><p>You find your way to Old South, Wheat Town rising out in the distance. The streetlights have petered off. It’s just the bright halogen headlamps of the Coupris Kineema, catching on the reeds on the side of the empty road. </p><p>The Pale. By all accounts, harrowing, apocalypse-level shit. And yet -- it’s always been <em> there </em> for you, like a strange fog on the edge of your mind. Hell, the idea of a world without it seems -- inconsistent. Every day, you get up, give the fog a middle finger when you can, and hunker down with the shitkid when you can't. Or with him. </p><p>Kim is pushing it out, away, and it’s not retreating anymore. That’s -- well, you’re sure you tried that once, but you were too young to remember the way it hurt when it made no damn difference. </p><p>You wonder distantly if in another life Kim would have let that thread tug on him. His deft and skilled hands, rather than sewing jackets or adding something new to the Kineema, set to work building latitude compressors, obsessing over possible containment practices. </p><p>You know in your bones he's the kind who doesn't like to sit still over shit-- neither of you are. If there's something that can be done, he'll do it. If there's nothing that can be done, he shifts to the next thing that's possible. </p><p>You admire him most of all for knowing which is which. At least most of the time. </p><p>After close to an hour, you turn the car around. Back in the direction of the Pale, your mind reminds you. Not by much. Jamrock's lights rise up on the horizon, the darkness behind you. In a few hours it will be sunrise. Again. </p><p>You know where he lives not so much by name but by feeling -- almost like the Kineema knows its way back by now, and you’re just letting it shift and turn under your hands. Rather than parking in front of his apartment, you drive down to the shore. A boat launch, its rust-covered gate thrown carelessly open, catches your eye. You park the car there, only a few feet from the water along the incline. You hope you can trust the brakes.</p><p>“Kitsuragi,” you nudge him gently, “Kim.”</p><p>“Khm?” he starts awake gently, looking to the dark brick of the wall beside you, blinking at the water, “Where are we?”</p><p>“Just the end of the world,” you shrug, pointing at the sky off in the distance, “There’s stars.”</p><p>He blinks slowly, “Ah. I was asleep.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m bullshitting you. We’re just on a boat launch. Not far from your apartment,” you feel the same nervousness rise up in your throat, and you shove it back down. He needed sleep, he got to sleep. You’re not up to making everything sunshine and rainbows, and neither is he. You turn to touch his shoulder, now that you’ve sorted yourself.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I --”</p><p>“Don’t you start with that,” you shake your head, equal parts fierce and teasing, “You wouldn’t take that from me and Harry, so I’m not going to let you start.”</p><p>“Hmm,” he shakes his head, but there’s a ghost of a smile there, “I suppose it’s easier than it seems to want to apologize, when someone else is collateral damage.”</p><p>“Is that what you feel like, with me? Like you’re collateral?” It’s not a hard question. You know the answer. It’s just he’s forgotten it right now. </p><p>“No.”</p><p>You just tilt your head back at him, take his hand again. He does smile then, beautiful, painful. He knows what you mean. </p><p>“I do appreciate it. It wasn’t the same level of urgent it was for you -- and it’s early.”</p><p>“Trust you to pick Saturday night to have a breakdown -- it’s more than fine, Kits. I’ll sleep it off. So will you,” simple, logical solutions. The sun will rise, the pale will continue its inexorable rot, and human beings will succumb to exhaustion. And then wake up. </p><p>“That’s easier to contemplate now,” he nods seriously. Then falls silent. You can feel him turning over a question.</p><p>“Will you come up?”</p><p>Stay? Is the implicit question, and you feel in the way his fingertips tighten that it was difficult for him to ask. You’re already nodding. </p><p>“Course I will. I’m here for what you need. I want to be.”</p><p>“Don’t hurt yourself for my sake, Jean -- “</p><p>“I’m not. You can trust that,” you say quietly. He holds your gaze, and finally, finally, the air in your lungs seems to settle. Maybe for the first time since Martinaise. Maybe even before. </p><p>“I do. That’s why I’m here.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I had a bit of an intimate scene (not in the sexual sense) that I contemplated writing after they head up to Kim's apartment, where they fall asleep holding each other, but I ultimately decided to leave it here. I have a lot of personal experience with meaningful platonic relationships; and though I'm happy to see this interpreted as romantic, I want to leave ample space for it to be intimate yet platonic. </p><p>This chapter has fan art by the amazing ave-ari!</p><p>
  
</p><p>Comments very welcome; Kim and Jean give me a lot of feelings.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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